Back in 2003, The Daver, being The Daver, saw the Discman I used on the train to and from school. He felt sorry for me, my pathetic Discman and collection of badly scratched CD’s.

(don’t ever loan me a CD)

He kindly gave me this:

It was the first generation iPod, 40 gigs of swinging death in a neat, cigarette-box of a case. It was also WAY over my head. I had no idea what a “gig” was if it wasn’t a band show, and the idea of putting music in a cigarette box made me suspicious.

But I fell in love with it.

I had it until The Daver took it back for some reason or another (I’d probably scratched it or something). I replaced it with this:

They’d been out of the green iPod mini I’d wanted, so instead I got the pink one, waggling my tongue at The Daver, whose iPod was now twice the size of my sleek Mini.

Last year, I decided that it was high time for a NEW iPod; the Nano. A chorus of “what the fuck’s?” met me when I showed off my new purchase. I do, of course, have an iPhone which neatly serves as an iPod as well.

I waggled my tongue maturely at the nay-sayers and explained that it was mostly for working out. The iPhone AND the iPod Mini weighed like 97 pounds and really, I couldn’t charge the damn Mini anymore. No power cord.

I’ve used it every day since. Beaten the shit out of it. Planned to continue beating the shit out of it because, well, the first two iPods still work. They’re like magic. The Nano, I figured, would last me forever.

I pictured us running off into the sunset together, me and my Nano. That is, of course, until my crotch monkeys left it in a puddle of bubbles on Sunday, sabotaging our relationship. Possibly, my life.

Dona nobis pacem, Blue Nano.

Rest in Peace.

*cries*

*weeps*

*wails*

*flops about the house*

*mopes*

….

….

…

Oooh! I can buy a SNAP BRACELET HOLDER for the new iPod.

On second thought, maybe I’ll buy my kids a pony instead of disowning them.

The first time I got a blog troll, I ate a celebratory cupcake and washed it down with a tall Diet Coke on the rocks. It was probably, in hindsight, a spammer (just like my first comments , which I think I framed somewhere, were) but I didn’t care. I’d made it! Someone, somewhere hated me!

Then, I got someone who copied bits out of my blog posts. Actual bits of my posts removed and pasted onto hers, like it was no big deal. Someone else, a watchdog, alerted me. My daughter had just been born ill and I wasn’t about to deal with it right then. Talk about bigger fish to fry. I like to think I would have fist-pumped, though, and perhaps celebrated with a tasty bowl of edamame or a wee Uncrustables.

Later yet came the loon who created several blogs composed of entirely stolen posts filched neatly from other bloggers, myself included, who I did fight. Google claims they shut her down, but I don’t care to check because I don’t want to drive her traffic up. I still have, somewhere on my desktop, screenshots of all of your comments on her blog, just because they were so full of the awesome, by the way.

You don’t fuck with the Pranksters.

Since that first Internet Mole Person (troll), I’ve gotten a handful of others.

Generally, they make me laugh.

There are weeks when they do not.

Like anyone, I’m a person, and I have bad days, and bad weeks, and sometimes I say and do the wrong things. In fact, if I had to describe my blog, I’d say something like, “THIS is where I bow to the alter of my wrongness.” I don’t have a publicist or an adviser to tell me not to do something because, uh, why?

This week, I’ve gotten a couple of nasty-grams that hurt my feelers. I know we’re “supposed” to pretend like it doesn’t matter; like we don’t care, like it doesn’t hurt our feelers when people call us names or insult us, but it does. Of course it does.

Like it or not, this is my life.

Certainly, it’s my steaming pile of guts spilled here, my wrongness on display, and my inconsistencies on the table to be judged and if I don’t like it, I can absolutely pack up shop and go somewhere else. That’s the answer, right? To delete my blog in a stompy flourish? Go back to being Becky, In Real Life? That’s how to handle hurt feelers?

Not so much. At least, not for me.

Blogging is an act of bravery. When you put yourself out there, especially waaay out there, you stand a very real chance to be very hurt or very disgusted by human nature. The farther you stick your neck out, the worse the inevitable hurt will be.

What I think is worse than anything are the people who get you entirely wrong. Because you’re left standing there stuttering, “but, but, BUT, that’s not what I meant AT ALL.”

These are the sort that make me sort of question myself in a way that I seldom do (perhaps I should): Did I say it wrong? WAS I wrong?

And most importantly: why the hell do I do this at all? I see that typed out here, on my screen and it looks like I’m being all 15-years old and dramatical feet-stamp *woe is me, OH NOES* and I’m (for once) not.

I mean that genuinely: why do I do this? Why do ANY of us bother?

It’s certainly not for the billions of dollars in my bank account that still haven’t been deposited, nor is it for the notoriety and free swag, or to be able to tell someone that “I blog, and it’s really, really cool.” Because I swear, if I told someone that, they’d be all, “um, huh? Did you just insult me?”

No. It’s not for that. It’s because it all matters. Every word I write matters. To me. These words are what define me, what make up my life, and what bring me joy. Whether or not someone else finds them and finds joy in them too is inconsequential because it brings me joy. I write because I love to. I write because that is what I do. I write because it matters.

Everything we do. It all matters.

My Dad: “We found a new place to park that’s much closer to the front of McCormick Place.”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “It’s all street parking. No meters!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “Paying for parking is bullshit!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “It’s also much, much closer to the entrance! NO WALKING!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “The best part?”

Me: “…”

My Dad: “It’s in front of Cabrini Green.”

Me: “…”

Me: “The housing project? From Candyman? I almost got killed there once.”

My Dad: “I hope you’re ready to do some jogging!”

Me: “Uh.”

My Dad: “You know how I hate paying for parking, Rebecca!”

Me: “I didn’t bring a semi-automatic weapon, Dad.”

My Dad: “Well, you probably won’t get mugged. It’s day time!”

Me: “…”

Me: “I’ll buy parking today, huh? MY TREAT.”

My Dad: “It’s the PRINCIPLE, Rebecca.”

Me: “Well, how about this? I’ll drop you off in front of Cabrini Green and you can walk! That way, you feel like you got free parking!”

My Dad: “Well, if you’re paying…”

Yesterday, I woke up and Billy Motherfucking Mays was all:

IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY, YOU DIRTY SLUT, SO GET YOUR LAZY BITCH-ASS UP AND GET READY TO FUCKING SPARKLE ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE.

When Billy Motherfucking Mays is the first voice in your head in the morning, you shut your whore mouth and you listen.

Gingerly, opened my eyes and thought about my plans for the day. I had an appointment with my neurologist who looks, incidentally, like he stepped off the set of a spaghetti Western somewhere (I’ve diagnosed him with GERD)(gastroesophogeal reflux disease)(he should really get that taken care of). Over by the neuro was the mall. At the mall were STORES. At the stores were PRESENTS. Presents for ME.

Today, I thought, was going to be a very good day indeed.

I sat up. Easy-peasy, I thought to myself. Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger!

Then, in an alarming fit of poor judgment, I stood up. Whoops! My bad. My legs felt like wobbly stumps, thanks to the migraine and Imitrex. Well, shit. Hard to take on the world without properly functioning legs.

I hummed “Life’s Been Good To Me So Far,” as I made my way to the bathroom. All right, I cheered. I got my fucking sea-legs.

When I looked in the mirror, this is what looked back;

Woah. That’s hot. I should probably become a model or something.

(BARBIZON, BE A MODEL, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

I tried to scrub the ugly off my face but it just wasn’t happening. The Ugly Cry has it’s aftermath.

I wobbled down and drank some coffee, giggling at all of the anti-VD Tweets (I have other holidays I feel similarly about) and tried to peck out a post. I’ve been writing in the mornings for so long that if I don’t, I feel like I’m missing an arm.

But I couldn’t.

I was wobbly in the head, too.

Billy Motherfucking Mays piped in:

“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND WRITE A GODDAMNED POST, YOU LAZY DRUG-SEEKING BAG OF WIND.”

But luckily, Bob Motherfucking Ross was right behind him:

“Happy Clouds, Aunt Becky. Focus on the Happy Clouds.”

I tried to see those happy fucking clouds and write my goddamed post at the same time and I just couldn’t do it.

Then it came to me. I needed to go where I’d never (willingly) gone before to do something I’d never (willingly) done before: look at laptops.

We all know that my technical knowledge begins and ends with I push a button and the Magical Elves in the Email Machine come alive! So the very notion going to a computer store for the express purpose of looking at computers for myself is as laughable as me painting my kitchen with my tongue.

Normally, I only go to Best Buy if ambushed:

Daver, My Dad, or My Brother: “Oh HEY there, Becky/Rebecca/Stumpy, let’s go to MCDONALDS!!”

Me: “OOOOOOOOH CHEESEBURGERS.”

(I get into the car like a rube)

Me: “HEY WAIT A MINUTE THERE’S NO CHEESEBUR…GAH, OH MY GOD THE BLUE AND THE YELLOW AND FUCKING SHITBALLS IT’S SO BRIGHT IN HERE. LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. HALP ME HALP ME HALP. MAKE IT GO AWAY.”

Daver, My Dad or My Brother: “You think you’d learn, but you never do.”

Then I hover, invading their personal space, until they get fed up and leave. Alternately, I insist that they buy me something exorbitantly expensive. Like a pony.

To actually want to go to Worst Best Buy is the equivalent to hell freezing over. But I need a lappy and I don’t have a lappy and every time I try and look for one online, this is what it looks like,

And then I get really annoyed because there are so many fucking NUMBERS and I don’t actually CARE about most of them so then I go and watch Dexter mutilate people and feel better until I realize that I still should figure out which laptop I am going to buy because, hi, this staying home all day bullshit is making me twitchy.

Also: I need to take the Internet away from Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg because it’s time for a GIRL to be in charge. I need to RUB MY VAGINA on the internet, Pranksters, but I have to be able to be MOBILE to dominate the world and shit.

I proceeded into Best Buy after perfecting my GET AWAY FROM ME GEEK SQUAD look in the mirror.

See, if you don’t watch out for them, they sneak up on you and the next thing you know, you have to hear a sermon on why you should buy their stupid anti-virus protection or whatever, but you’re just standing there, mentally rearranging their features kinda like Mr. Potato Head but geekier. So you have to be wary of them. Very wary.

I snuck to the back of the store where the keep the lappy’s hostage, ogling the desktops as I went past.

And there they were: row after row of laptops. Finally, I could stop obsessing about my inability to decide and just fucking decide already. This was too tedious, even for me, to obsess about.

I rolled my eyes at the tiny netbooks. I didn’t need no stinkin’ netbook. Child’s play.

And there it was. A light, a beacon of light, shone down and I saw exactly what I needed. A laptop that said, “hey world, I’m a fucking blogger. You’d better take me and my 17 inches of swinging death seriously or I am going to go all CPU (whatever that means) on your ass. I’ll punch you in the throat if you don’t take me and my oversized screen and too many memory chips and stuff fucking seriously because I am a blogger and this is an absurdly awesome computer.”

A laptop that was absurdly absurd. Too much computer. WAY too much computer.

Just like I like it, baby.

Just as soon as I sell a kidney, Imma get me a fucking big ass 17-inch MacBook Pro. So I can go all (insert a bunch of nerdly phrases that I don’t understand here) on the Internet’s Ass. I’LL SHOW ZUCKERBERG WHO’S BOSS.

Just as soon as, uh, I get it. And stuff.

SO TAKE THAT, ZUCKERBERG. In um, a, um, couple of months…and stuff, I’m going to take over the INTERNET.

#BOOYEAH

Every year, right around March, I’m all, “IMMA MAKE AWESOME CHRISTMAS CARDS NEXT YEAR!” I get these really grand ideas like, exploding firecracker Christmas Cards and Christmas Cards that sing “Rock Me Amadeus” and maybe just cards that feature my family dressed up in totally weird outfits. Either way, my ideas are FULL of the awesome.

Then I forget about it.

Or, I don’t really forget about it, I just don’t remember that it takes some level of PLANNING to execute holiday cards and I’m not known for my fine attention to details. Like, for instance, I never own stamps. Because, OBVIOUSLY, stamps are bullshit.

So I haven’t sent Christmas cards in like 7 years. But every year I’m all THIS IS GONNA BE MY YEAR. JUST LIKE THE KIDS ON AMERICAN IDOL.

(it never is)

This year, I was considering sending Valentine’s Day cards. It’s kind of awesomely different and really, wouldn’t you like to see MY smiling mug on YOUR Day To Shell Out Lots Of Money To Take Your Loved One Out For A Cheesy Overpriced Dinner?

(don’t answer that) (really, I don’t think my ego can take it)

Then, I found the most perfectest solution. Better than a Valentine’s Day Card, I’m going to commission one of these. With a friend that you all know, too. If you’re lucky, you’ll get one.

From the amazing, awe-inspiring Celestial Soul Portraits.

I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am. I’m going to frame it and put it in EVERY ROOM OF MY HOUSE. And over my bed. And in my car. And on the side of my car. I might even buy a van and have it spray-painted on there.

I’m weeping with possibilities.

Operating on about 3 hours of sleep combined, my husband of 40 hours sat across from me shoe-less, his shirt up around his pasty nipples while another man rubbed him up and down. While an awkward woman rubbed my butt and patted down my vagina, our eyes met. Without attracting any more attention, I mouthed “I’m sorry.” His eyes smiled right before the man grazed his balls with his elbow. Then he wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was all my fault. Honestly.

Later, he expressed, several screwdrivers to the wind, that this was his first experience with being singled out and searched by airport security.

Mouth full of egg and cheese biscuit and several screwdrivers drunk myself, I slurred, “Well, dude, at least they didn’t take you to that back room.” I took a long drag off my drink, “Because that shit is WHACK.” I paused. “And hey, they let me keep one of my lighters.”

The Daver looked less than pleased.

“I’m sorry,” I said, chastised. “It’s all my fault.”

But was it? Was the issue with having a face (presumably) like a terrorist my fault? Certainly I’d been stopped by customs and security more times than I could possibly count, singled out from a crowd each and every time I flew since I was a small child. My father and brother, who turn equally brown-skinned in the sun, get it also, but not as badly as I do.

I can’t put a toe into an airport without securing a nice frisking and potential strip-search.

While I can easily claim that I *am* an asshole, the moment I hit the airport, I turn into the idiot sister from Hee-Haw. I’m all “Golly Gee,” this and “Jeepers, Mister,” that with a side of “Gee wilikers” thrown in for good measure. You’ll never see a more ridiculously PC, G-rated version of me.

And still. And yet. And how.

I’ve learned to show up to the airport extra EXTRA early. I’ve learned that flip-flops–even in the dead of winter in Chicago–are the footwear of champions, and I know to wear loose baggy pants for easy up and down access.

But this begs the question. Why me? Was I marked as a potential terrorist when I was a baby? Is this on my ever-fucking Permanent Record?

I’m going to Vegas in two weeks at the ass-crack of dawn and I’m certain that on each leg of the trip, I will be searched up and down, and God forbid I pack the wrong toothpaste or something, because I am hoping to make it to my destination.

With the new regulations, though, it’s likely I’ll have to have The Sex with the TSA to make my flights. Maybe I’ll walk.

Vegas or bust, baby.

People who use “alot” rather than “a lot” will be banished to a small island where they will be forced to listen to the collective works of Captain and Tennile until they can demonstrate that they know that “a lot” is not, has never been, and never will be one motherfucking word.

Comic Sans will be banned to the alot island for being the stupidest looking fucking font, ever.

The commercial that begins “I have genital herpes….and I don’t!!” will be burned for all of the times it’s made me choke on my breakfast cereal because I then had to spend the rest of the day thinking about diseased genitals. STD’s aren’t something we should be ashamed of. Commercials that make me think of weeping sores are.

People who write blogs like Mommy Wants Vodka shall be exiled to star in erectile dysfunction commercials.

Any commercial that tells me to “have a happy period” should be forced to donate all profits to women’s shelters around the world. No one has a “happy period.” Even all those times I was like, “WOO HOO! GOT MAH PERIOD! I’M NOT KNOCKED UP!” It lasted for .04 seconds until I was all, “oh…my period. Ew.”

The word “Hubby” will be banished from the English Language for being too cutesy and making me nauseous.

All email programs will come with a Passive-Aggressive filter, and any that have a passive-aggressive tone will be immediately sent to cyber trash.

The Braggy Facebook Status Offenders shall be banished to MySpace.

The DMV will stop requiring a goat, three pails of milk and a kidney to renew your driver’s license.

All government employees will have to be polite and courteous or they will have their sassy mullets shaved as punishment.

Naptime shall be mandatory for every single person, every day of the week.

Pants will be optional.

Narcotics shall be manufactured to be non-addictive.

Anyone who regularly uses corporate speak with buzz-words shall be banished with the “alot” people to the very same island.

Mayonnaise* and thousand island dressing shall be napalmed off the planet for being an abomination.

Random ZOMBIE ATTACK! Drills shall be practiced.

The entertainment industry will stop making vampire-related movies and television shows. The trend is kinda played out, people.

Email programs will come with a “translate” feature allowing you to translate your email into:

• Zombie

• Pirate

• LOL! Cats

• Porn Speak

• Old Englishe

• Hipster

• Hippie

• Cheech and Chong

Richard Simmons shall be the national mascot.

Gladiators will make a fierce comeback.

Apple will make all of its products affordable to everyone.

All internet reference sites will have to be reputable with credible sources used as references for any statements said as facts.

People will stop arguing about breast v bottle feeding because they will finally realize that it’s really fucking boring.

APA format will be blown off the scholastic map. Or an actual reference guide will be invented.

*You Lovers of Mayo win. I won’t ban it.

——————

Your turn, Pranksters. What will you mandate when YOU rule the world?

Even after I publicly claimed that “I was unable to say no to most pranks,” no one in NYC actually dared me to do anything. That’s bullshit.

So while I was at this big fancy party thrown by Schick, I came up with a hybrid prank that I was dying to do.

Pranking, you see, runs in my family. My older brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, is a Master Prankster (I know, some of you are shocked that I share my near-perfect genetics with someone else. Let me reassure you that the moment that I was born, my mother decided to get spayed. She knew she’d looked in the face of perfection and could do no better. Actually, she looked at me and said, “Now THAT is a face only a mother will love! “

Yeah, that’s why I’m like this).

He was the sort that had a propane tank and Bunsen burner in his high school locker to make coffee and was well known both by the STC PD and his dean for getting into mischief.

So when I realized that the place that this party was being thrown was in the same fancy complex as Masa, one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in the world, I decided that what I wanted more than anything was to enact my Master Prank. It’s a hybrid on the Ferris Bueller Prank, but, well, better.

The Con:

Get a normal person to fake a celebrity to get a table in a fancy, exclusive restaurant on a busy night without a reservation.

The Players:

The Celebrity: A woman, dressed as eccentrically as possible, possibly her hair wet and disheveled (on a dry day), large sunglasses covering her face and acting like a total weirdo. Occasionally wander around lobby eating flowers, talking to paintings, and screaming incoherently into off cell phone. Also has a weirdly familiar three word name.

Security: A dude. Not necessarily a LARGE man, but someone who can act formidable. Sunglasses with wire rims a must. Full black suit. Facial hair for anyone younger than 30.

This is Hockey Man Dad, who is Angie’s husband.

The Handler/Assistant: Smartly dressed woman in one of those weird women’s suits with the skirts. Coordinated gold jewelry a must. Sensible heels and a well executed up-do. Choices were:

Angie Pangie

Heather

Both were also candidates for Celebrity Role as well.

Extras: Stock lobby with people who “know” the celebrity who can ask for autographs and gasp and say, “OHMYGOD, IT’S BECKY SHERRICK HARKS.”

The Prank

Show up to an exclusive restaurant without a reservation, “celebrity” acting like a total freak (which, in my case, isn’t hard to pull off) and demand a table. When the host/ess claims that there are no tables available, pull the “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS?”

Clearly, they will not, because, well, the “celebrity” is a nobody.

Security will stand around, looking menacing while the Handler tries to convince the hostess that “Becky Sherrick Harks” really is not someone that this restaurant can afford the “bad publicity” to turn away. The three-name name is always a good one to pull out because it makes you sound like you are probably more important than you are.

Hope like hell no one has read your stupid blog or bothers to Google you to FIND your blog.

The “celebrity” should wander around the lobby acting like a total fool, eating the flowers, talking to inanimate objects and scaring the other patrons while security attempts to wrangle her.

Have lobby extras ask for autographs and pose for pictures with “celebrity” while handler talks with host/ess about getting the table. Have her go up management chain to secure table for “client.”

Make sure some of the extras gasp loudly and make a scene about “celebrity” and how awesome “celebrity” is.

Keep at the hostess for twenty or so minutes to see if you can actually manage a table out of them. If it does not work, leave in a threatening huff, promising that their restaurant will be on the next day’s paper. And on Twitter. Etc.

The Reason I Wasn’t Able To Pull It Off:

First, I was dressed normally that day, and was too tired to go back to the hotel to put on something zany and weird. Had I had even an ounce more energy, I would have gone back and found myself half of a fat suit to wear or something. And then gotten drenched. Getting wet is always a good cover.

Then, there was this, my security detail (who ALSO wasn’t dressed properly):

That’s me, attempting to look like I’m taking a picture with some REAL celebrity that was at the party I was attending. I’m from Chicago, and people from Chicago aren’t overly impressed by celebrity, unless it’s Britney Spears and OMFG, I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS.

But, my SECURITY detail, he was all FanBoy on the dude. So, I wasn’t able to wrangle him away.

We were down two essential players.

Plus, Heather was throwing the party and Angie was as tired as I was, so it just seemed like our hearts weren’t going to be into pranking.

Next year, though, I’m going to do something with THIS:

—————-

P.S. Are you impressed by celebrity? What celebrities have you met? Will you do this prank with me?

Did you ever see that movie where those yuppies sold all of their crap and RV-d it across America? THAT’S AWESOME and I TOTALLY want to do that. Except I wouldn’t bring my children because while they’re kinda cute and lovable, I really don’t want to deal with them complaining about stopping at seedy truck stops while I search for a lighter that looks like a gun.

(side note: I adore truck stops)(one time, I had a fantasy where I was going to BECOME a trucker until I realized it’s kind of a dangerous profession for a woman)

Anyway, I like to pretend that one day, I’ll be able to do just that: roam the country and hang out with my Pranksters. Perhaps I’ll even get drunk, make an ass of myself (which I do sober, too) and vomit on your carpeting! I know, don’t all line up to invite me over at once, hear?

For now, I have to settle for NYC at the end of the week, where I’ll hopefully meet at least SOME of my Band of Merry Pranksters.

Now I will attempt to answer a question I get a lot (also questions I get a lot: “why are you so annoying?” (answer: I was born that way) “why does anyone put up with you?” (I pay them highly) and “how do I get more blog traffic?” (mayonnaise!)):

Are you really like this?

And the answer is…yes. Mostly.

1) I really do want to meet you. I offered to exchange phone numbers a couple of weeks ago, and I meant it. My offer still stands, although I will pester you to then send me a picture of you flipping me the bird. I’m attempting to populate my address book with these gems.

So email me. I mean it.

2) If you happen to see me and I have a weird look on my face, I am probably very confused. I take high doses of a medication whose side effect is “cognitive impairment,” which is a fancy-pants way of saying, “this shit will make your ass stupid (er).” So, it’s likely I’m making a bad face because I am confused by something, not because I hate you.

3) Please come and say hello to me no matter what I am doing. Because chances are, even if I am in the middle of writing a thesis about why sausage is sorely underrepresented in today’s billboards (WHY GOD!?!), I’d much rather you said hello. And maybe came along to join in with whatever mischief I am managing.

C) With a few notable (read: my panel) exceptions, I have very little planned for the trip, which leaves the trip WIDE OPEN for all kinds of Pranking and Mayhem-Creating. I expect your help in this. Yes, YOU.

7) You should come to my panel, if you’re going to the conference.

It’s on Friday from 1:15-2:30 and I’m speaking with the Mouthy Housewives about stuff-n-things. Luckily, it’s on Friday, so we should all be fairly lucid. Mostly.

You will know me because I am the only swarthy dark-haired one.

5b) I’m perhaps a little nicer in real life, but that’s maybe subject to debate. I guess it depends on what your definition of “nice” is. But I’m not going to be all snarky on your ass if I don’t know you. I do have SOME manners. And by “some” I mean that I’m mostly housebroken.

9) I can’t say no to most dares. But I’ll make you reciprocate with a dare of your own. BE WARNED.

K) I may hump you while I eat a hot dog. It’s probable, actually. Sorry.

10) I have a gigantic inflatable #1 finger. It’s pretty much awesome and I plan to use it whenever possible.

87) I want to remake the Beastie Boys “Sabotage” video while we’re in NYC. With Ninjas. Because, obviously.

aa) I may spend all of my time trying to track down my 2nd television husband, Anthony Bourdain. I may not.

08) Once I get an idea in my head about doing something off the wall, I can’t stop myself from doing it. If you’re with me and I’m in the middle of it, yes, I probably mean it. It’s better to either get out or buckle up.

42) Pictures = awesome. But we may have to find hilarious poses first. Because you don’t want to look back and be all, “wow, another stupid picture.” You want a hilarious picture of us flinging donuts at other (unassuming) bloggers. Then you want a picture of us being chased by aforementioned bloggers. CLEARLY.

11) There really is very little I won’t do.

——————–

So, Pranksters, are You, In Real Life, how you appear on your blog?

Stop me if you’ve heard this one, Pranksters, but did you have any idea that raising children was a lot of work? Because holy fuckballs, is it ever! If I’d have known that, I might have stuck with hamsters. Actually, no, because the last hamster I had (and I am not kidding here) actually threw his own excrement at you if you walked near his cage.

So depending on who you asked, I was either the BEST hamster owner or the worst. Because, OBVIOUSLY.

The way I see it, when you pop out a couple of crotch parasites, it seems that one of the adults in the family–should you be lucky enough to have more than one parent–has to put their own life on the back burner to attend to said crotch parasites.

Well, in our family, I was the one who put my own life on the back burner, because, let’s face it Pranksters, I wasn’t exactly batting 100% with stellar life choices and The Daver’s star was on the fucking rise. So the decision to shelve my nursing career was pretty much a no-brainier for everyone involved and it was frankly kind of a relief because then I didn’t have to pretend that I was going to squeeze a turd into a tutu anymore.

Since I’ve been home, I’ve done everything I said I was going to do, besides date a cabana boy named Carlos (mostly because I have no cabana), and I’ve been waiting for it to be my time. It’s all been a matter of “when I can do what I want to do again” spoken in terms of years from now, not days or even weeks from now. Long term goals are great, but mine have always been “don’t die,” not “go back to school in 5 years” or even worse, “keep waiting for your own life to begin.”

Because my life as Mommy (or “Becky” as Alex calls me right before he scampers off so that I chase him around the house with my Tickle Claw out) is all of those crocheted platitudes and more, but it’s not all that I am. It can’t be. Mommy and Aunt Becky will exist together because they have to.

I don’t think I was ready before, but I do now. Change is in the air and it is throwing poop at my head. Universe, let’s do this.

I’m ready to find out what comes next. I’m playing “Eye of the Tiger” and punching the air. I’m doing visualization exercises and drinking green tea. diet coke. I’m ready, Universe.

I just hope it doesn’t involve poo-throwing hamsters.

—————–

How do you find balance, Pranksters? Better yet, how do you train a hamster to throw poo at someone RELIABLY?